The Edge of Reason Page 18

  “Who do you think is older, me or Mark?” Rebecca was saying.

  “Mark,” said Constance sulkily, looking from side to side as if planning to bolt.

  “Who do you think is older, me or Mummy?” Rebecca went on playfully.

  “Mummy,” said Constance disloyally, at which Rebecca gave a tinkly little laugh.

  “Who do you think is older, me or Bridget?” said Rebecca, giving me a wink.

  Constance looked up at me doubtfully while Rebecca beamed at her. I nodded quickly at Rebecca.

  “You,” said Constance.

  Mark Darcy let out a burst of laughter.

  “Shall we play fairies?” Rebecca trilled, changing tack, trying to take Constance by the hand. “Do you live in a fairy castle? Is Harry a fairy too? Where are your fairy-wairy friends?”

  “Bridget,” said Constance, looking at me levelly, “I think you’d better tell this lady I’m not really a fairy.”

  Later on, as I was recounting this to Shaz, she said darkly, “Oh God. Look who’s here.”

  Across the garden was Jude, radiant in turquoise, chatting to Magda but without Vile Richard.

  “The girls are here!” said Magda gaily. “Look! Over there!”

  Shaz and I stared down studiously into our glasses as if we hadn’t noticed. When we looked up, Rebecca was bearing down on Jude and Magda mwah-mwahing like a social-climbing literary wife who’s just spotted Martin Amis talking to Gore Vidal.

  “Oh Jude, I’m so happy for you, it’s wonderful!” she gushed.

  “I don’t know what that woman’s on but I want some of it,” muttered Sharon.

  “Oh, you and Jeremy must come, no you must. You absolutely must,” Rebecca was going now. “Well, bring them! Bring the children! I love children! Second weekend in July. It’s my parents’ place in Gloucestershire. They’ll love the pool. All sorts of lovely, lovely people are coming! I’ve got Louise Barton-Foster, Woney and Cosmo . . .” Snow White’s stepmother, Fred and Rosemary West and Caligula, I thought she might go on.

  “. . . Jude and Richard, and Mark’ll be there of course, Giles and Nigel from Mark’s office . . .”

  I saw Jude glance in our direction. “And Bridget and Sharon?” she said.

  “What?” said Rebecca.

  “You’ve invited Bridget and Sharon?”

  “Oh.” Rebecca looked flustered. “Well, of course, I’m not sure we’ve got enough bedrooms but I suppose we could use the cottage.” Everyone stared at her. “Yes, I have!” She looked round wildly. “Oh, there you two are! You’re coming on the twelfth, aren’t you?”

  “Where?” said Sharon.

  “To Gloucestershire.”

  “We didn’t know anything about it,” said Sharon loudly.

  “Well. You do now! Second weekend in July. It’s just outside Woodstock. You’ve been before, haven’t you, Bridget?”

  “Yes,” I said, coloring, remembering that hideous weekend.

  “So! That’s great! And you’re coming, Magda, so . . .”

  “Um . . .” I began.

  “We’d love to come,” said Sharon firmly, treading on my foot.

  “What? What?” I said when Rebecca had whinnied off.

  “Of course we’re bloody well going,” she said. “You’re not letting her hijack all your friends just like that. She’s trying to bludgeon everyone into some ridiculous social circle of suddenly needed, nearly friends of Mark’s ready for the two of them to plop into like King and Queen Buzzy-bee.”

  “Bridget?” said a posh voice. I turned to see a shortish sandy-haired guy in glasses. “It’s Giles, Giles Benwick. I work with Mark. Do you remember? You were terribly helpful on the phone that night when my wife said she was leaving.”

  “Oh, yes, Giles. How are you?” I said. “How’s everything going?”

  “Oh, not very good, I’m afraid,” said Giles. Sharon disappeared with a backwards look, at which Giles launched into a long, detailed, and thorough account of his marital breakup.

  “I so much appreciated your advice,” he said, looking at me very earnestly. “And I did buy Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus. I thought it was very, very, very good, though it didn’t seem to alter Veronica’s point of view.”

  “Well, it’s more dealing with dating than divorce,” I loyally-to-the-Mars-and-Venus-concept said.

  “Very true, very true,” conceded Giles. “Tell me: have you read You Can Heal Your Life by Louise Hay?”

  “Yes!” I said delightedly. Giles Benwick really did seem to have an extensive knowledge of the self-help book world and I was very happy to discuss the various works with him, though he did go on a bit. Eventually Magda came over with Constance.

  “Giles, you really must come and meet my friend Cosmo!” she said, rolling her eyes discreetly at me. “Bridge, would you mind looking after Constance for a mo?”

  I knelt down to talk to Constance, who seemed to be worried about the aesthetic effect of chocolate smears on a tutu. Just as we had both firmly convinced ourselves that chocolate smears on pink were attractive, unusual and a positive design asset, Magda reappeared. “I think poor old Giles’s got a bit of a crush on you,” she said wryly and took Constance off for a poo. Before I’d got up again someone started smacking my bottom.

  I turned round—thinking, I confess, maybe Mark Darcy!—to see Woney’s son William and his friend, giggling evilly.

  “Do it again,” said William and his small friend started smacking again. Tried to get up but William—who’s about six and big for his age—launched himself on to my back and wrested his arms around my neck.

  “Stoppit, William,” I said with an attempt at authority but at that moment there was a commotion at the other side of the garden. The pot-bellied pig had broken free and was rushing backwards and forwards letting out a high-pitched noise. There was mayhem as parents rushed for their offspring but William was still clinging tight to my back and the boy was still smacking my bottom and shrieking with Exorcist-style laughter. I tried to get William off, but he was surprisingly strong and clung on. My back was really hurting.

  Then suddenly William’s arms were released from round my neck. I felt him being lifted away and then the smacking stopped. For a moment I just hung my head, trying to get my breath back and recover my composure. Then I turned to see Mark Darcy walking away with a writhing six-year-old boy under each arm.

  For a while the party was entirely taken over by the recapturing of the pig, and Jeremy giving the petting zookeeper a bollocking. The next I saw of Mark, he was wearing his jacket and saying good-bye to Magda at which Rebecca rushed over and started saying good-bye as well. I looked away quickly and tried not to think about it. Then suddenly Mark was coming over to me.

  “I’m, er, off now, Bridget,” he said. Could swear I saw him glance down at my tits. “Don’t leave with any pieces of meat in your handbag, will you?”

  “No,” I said. For a moment we just looked at each other. “Oh, thank you, thank you for . . .” I nodded to where the incident had happened.

  “Not at all,” he said softly. “Any time you want me to get a boy off your back.” And as if on cue, bloody Giles Benwick reappeared carrying two drinks.

  “Oh, are you off, old boy?” he said. “I was just about to pump Bridget for some more of her seasoned advice.”

  Mark looked quickly from one of us to the other.

  “I’m sure you’ll be in very good hands,” he said abruptly. “See you in the office on Monday.”

  Fuck, fuck, fuck. How come nobody ever flirts with me except when Mark is around?

  “Back in the old torture chambers, eh?” Giles was saying, clapping him on the back. “On it goes. On it goes. Off you go then.”

  Head was in a whirl while Giles went on and on about sending me a copy of Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway. He was very keen to know if Sharon and I were going to Gloucestershire on the twelfth. But the sun seemed to have gone in, there was a lot of crying and “Mummy will smack”ing going on and e
veryone seemed to be leaving.

  “Bridget.” It was Jude. “Do you want to come to 192 for a—”

  “No we don’t,” snapped Sharon. “We’re going for a postmortem.” Which was a lie as Sharon was meeting Simon. Jude looked stricken. Oh God. Bloody Rebecca has ruined bloody everything. Though must remember not to blame others but take responsibility for everything that happens to self.

  TUESDAY 1 JULY

  127 lbs. (is working!), progress on hole in wall by Gary 0.

  I think I had better accept it now. Mark and Rebecca are an item. Is nothing I can do about it. Have been reading The Road Less Traveledsome more and realize you can’t have everything you want in life. Some of what you want but not everything you want. Is not what happens to you in life that counts but how you play the cards you are dealt. Am not going to think about the past and procession of disasters with men. Am going to think about the future. Oooh goody, telephone! Hurrah! You see!

  Was Tom just ringing up for a moan. Which seemed nice. Until he said, “Oh, by the way, I saw Daniel Cleaver earlier on tonight.”

  “Oh really, where?” I trilled, in a gay yet strangled voice. Realize am new me and dating embarrassments of past—e.g., just to pluck an example out of the air, finding a naked woman on Daniel’s roof last summer when was supposed to be going out with him—would never happen to new me. Even so, however, did not want specter of Daniel humiliation rearing up alarmingly in manner of Loch Ness monster, or erection.

  “In the Groucho Club,” said Tom.

  “Did you talk to him?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you say?” I asked dangerously. Whole point about exes is that friends should punish and ignore them, not try to get on with both sides in manner of Tony and Cherie with Charles and Diana.

  “Oof. I can’t remember now, exactly. I said, um: ‘Why were you so horrible to Bridget when she is so nice?’ ”

  There was something about the way he said this in manner of a parrot that suggested he may not have been quoting himself strictly word for word.

  “Good,” I said, “very good.” I paused, determined to leave it at that and change the subject. I mean what do I care what Daniel said?

  “So what did he say?” I hissed.

  “He said,” said Tom, then started laughing. “He said . . .”

  “What?”

  “He said . . .” He was practically crying with laughter now.

  “What? What? WHAAAAAAAAT?”

  “ ‘How can you go out with someone who doesn’t know where Germany is?’ ”

  I let out a high-pitched hyena laugh, almost as one does when one hears one’s grandmother has died and believes it to be a joke. Then the reality hit me. I clutched the side of the kitchen table, mind reeling.

  “Bridge?” said Tom. “Are you all right? I was only laughing because it’s so . . . ridiculous. I mean of course you know where Germany is . . . Bridge? Don’t you?”

  “Yes,” I whispered weakly.

  There was a long, awkward pause while I tried to come to terms with what had happened, i.e. Daniel had chucked me because he thought I was stupid.

  “So, then,” said Tom brightly. “Where is it . . . Germany?”

  “Europe.”

  “Yeah, but, like, where in Europe?”

  Honestly. In the modern age it is not necessary to know where countries actually are since all that is required is to purchase a plane ticket to one. They do not exactly ask you at the travel agent’s which countries you will be flying over before they will give you the ticket, do they?

  “Just give us a ballpark position.”

  “Er,” I stalled, head down, eyes flicking round the room to see if there might be an atlas at large.

  “Which countries do you think Germany might be near?” he pressed on.

  I thought about it carefully. “France.”

  “France. I see. So Germany is ‘near France,’ is it?”

  Something about the way Tom said this made me feel I’d made some cataclysmic gaffe. Then it occurred to me that Germany is of course connected to Eastern Germany and therefore it is far more likely to be close to Hungary, Russia or Prague.

  “Prague,” I said. At which Tom burst out laughing.

  “Anyway, there’s no such thing as general knowledge anymore,” I said indignantly. “It has been proved by articles that the media has created such a great sea of knowledge that everyone cannot possibly have the same selection of it.”

  “Never mind, Bridge,” said Tom. “Don’t worry about it. Do you want to see a movie tomorrow?” 11 p.m. Yes, am just going to go to movies now and read books. What Daniel may or may not have said is a matter of supreme indifference to me.

  11:15 p.m. How dare Daniel go round bad-mouthing me! How did he know I don’t know where Germany is? We never even went near it. Furthest we got to was the outskirts of Brighton. Huh.

  11:20 p.m. Anyway, I am really nice. So there.

  11:30 p.m. Am horrible. Am stupid. Am going to start studying The Economist and also go to evening classes and read Money by Martin Amis.

  11:35 p.m. Harhar. Have found atlas now.

  11:40 p.m. Hah! Right. I am going to ring up that bastard.

  11:45 p.m. Just dialed Daniel’s number.

  “Bridget?” he said, before I had time to say anything.

  “How did you know it was me?”

  “Some surreal sixth sense,” he drawled amusedly. “Hang on.” I heard him lighting a fag. “So go on then.” He inhaled deeply.

  “What?” I muttered.

  “Tell me where Germany is.”

  “It is next to France,” I said. “And also Holland, Belgium, Poland, Czechoslovakia, Switzerland, Austria and Denmark. And it has a sea coast.”

  “Which sea?”

  “North Sea.”

  “And?”

  I stared at the atlas furiously. It didn’t say the other sea.

  “OK,” he said. “One sea out of two is fine. So do you want to come round?”

  “No!” I said. Honestly. Daniel is absolutely the limit. Am not going to get involved with all that again.

  SATURDAY 12 JULY

  292 lbs. (feel like, compared to Rebecca), no. of pains in back from vile foam mattress 9, no. of thoughts involving Rebecca and natural disasters, electrical fires, floods, and professional killers: large, but proportionate.

  Rebecca’s house, Gloucestershire. In horrible guest cottage. Why did I come here? Why? Why? Sharon and I left it quite late and so arrived ten minutes before dinner. This did not go down very well with Rebecca, who trilled, “Oh, we’d almost given you up for lost!” in manner of Mum or Una Alconbury.

  We were staying in a servants’ cottage, which I decided was good as no danger of bumping into Mark in corridors, until we got into it: is all painted green with foam rubber single beds and Formica headboards, in sharp contrast to last time was here, staying in lovely hotel-style room with own bathroom.

  “Typical Rebecca,” grumbled Sharon. “Singletons are second-class citizens. Rub it in.”

  We teetered in late for dinner, feeling like a pair of garish divorcées because we’d put our makeup on so quickly. Dining room looked as breathtakingly grand as ever, with a huge inglenook fireplace at the end and twenty people sitting round an ancient oak dining table lit by silver candelabras and festooned with flower arrangements.

  Mark was at the head of the table, sitting between Rebecca and Louise Barton-Foster and deep in conversation.

  Rebecca appeared not to notice we’d come in. We stood staring awkwardly at the table till Giles Benwick bellowed, “Bridget! Over here!”

  I was put between Giles and Magda’s Jeremy, who seemed to have forgotten I ever went out with Mark Darcy and launched things off by going, “So! Looks like Darcy’s gone for your friend Rebecca, then. Funny because there was this bit of totty, Heather someone, friend of Barky Thompson’s, who seemed to be fancying a bit of a crack at the old bugger.”

  The fact that Mark and Reb
ecca were in earshot had clearly escaped Jeremy, but not me. I was trying to concentrate on his conversation and not listen to theirs, which had turned to a villa holiday Rebecca was organizing in Tuscany in August with Mark—as seemed to be the assumption—to which everybody simply must come, except presumably me and Shaz.

  “What’s that, Rebecca?” bellowed some terrible hooray I vaguely remembered from the skiing. Everyone looked at the fireplace where a new-looking family crest was engraved with the motto “Per Determinam ad Victoriam.” It was quite strange to have a crest since Rebecca’s family are not members of the aristocracy but something big in estate agents Knight, Frank and Rutley.

  “Per Determinam ad Victoriam?” roared the hooray. “Through ruthlessness to victory. That’s our Rebecca for you.”

  There was a huge roar of laughter and Shazzer and I exchanged a gleeful little look.

  “Actually it’s through determination to success,” said Rebecca icily. Glanced up at Mark, a trace of a smile just disappearing behind his hand.

  Somehow got through the meal, listening to Giles talking very slowly and analytically about his wife and tried to keep my mind away from Mark’s end of the table by sharing my self-help book knowledge.

  Was desperate to get off to bed and escape the whole painful nightmare, but we all had to go through to the big room for dancing.

  I started looking through the CD collection to distract me from the sight of Rebecca slowly rotating Mark round the floor, her arms round his neck, eyes darting contentedly round the room. I felt sick, but I wasn’t going to show it.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Bridget. Have some common sense,” said Sharon, barging up to the CDs, removing “Jesus to a Child” and putting some frenetic garage acid medley on instead. She strode on to the floor, swept Mark away from Rebecca and started dancing with him. Actually Mark was quite funny, laughing at Shazzer’s attempts to make him trendy. Rebecca looked as though she had eaten a tiramisù and only just checked the fat units.

  Suddenly Giles Benwick grabbed hold of me and started to rock and roll me wildly, so I found myself being flung around the room with a fixed grin on my face, head bouncing up and down like a rag doll being shagged.